


mine i'll leave to chance

by bossymarmalade (maggie)



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Backstory, Character of Color, Community: eid_ka_chand, Community: kissbingo, Eid ka Chand, M/M, Muslim Character, Senses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-27
Updated: 2010-09-27
Packaged: 2017-10-12 06:07:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maggie/pseuds/bossymarmalade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of all the senses, this one might be the hardest to pin down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	mine i'll leave to chance

**Author's Note:**

> standard foreword: if i have written something problematic/oppressive to a marginalized group that you find hurtful, please please please don't think twice about telling me. i will never spew hate at you, will never attack you, and i will always thank you and make the change.

Yusuf associates people with smells, has done ever since he was a boy. This was tricky before he learned that some scents made people less pleased than others; his mother was happy to learn that she smelled of rosewater (all the endless baking she did to take to jamatkhana), not as much to hear that she also smelled of onions (all the endless cooking for same). For months following what he'd thought was an innocuous observation the woman had gone straight to the shower once she finished cooking a meal and washed her hair so much it forever stood up in a fine, frizzy cloud over her head. After that, Yusuf learned to keep the less ... socially flattering aspects of his synesthesia to himself.

So when he meets Eames for one of their regular chai-and-Hobnobs chats, Yusuf asks Eames about the job he just came back from in Curaçao, pastel buildings and stewed goat and extraction from a jet-setting auction house heir, and doesn't mention the distinct laurel astringency of bay rum in the man's slicked-down hair.

When the two of them lounge in one of Yusuf's back rooms passing a pipe back and forth, tiger-eye marijuana that Yusuf's cousin Bina smuggled in on her last visit from Vancouver that gets them feeling looped in the head but with no prickly necks or aching stomachs, Yusuf whiffs in the tarry, sludgy black that lingers in a line under Eames' fingernails with each pass.

When they're kicking the swirls of Yusuf's chenille coverlet into heaps at the foot of his bed and Yusuf is pushing the colourful Kenyan short-sleeve from Eames' heavy shoulders, there's, yes, that cologne of his that smells of clean burnt-wood cypriot, but after all Yusuf's nose can tell between regular and deuterated benzaldehyde and it's something deeper he's after, so he sprawls one hand against Eames' face and pushes him down to the pillows, holds him there as Yusuf presses his nose behind Eames' damp pink ear --

\-- and ah yes, there's the smell Yusuf's been chasing down all evening, overripe soft melting innards of papaya (the fresh snap of the flesh itself, too, but he doesn't want that bit of it right now), lush and dense like between a woman's legs when she's wet, and oh yes, the slippery-bumpy-black pepper of the seeds, tiny depth charges of scorched spice and burn.

Eames makes a bumblebee noise of desire and his mouth pants open under Yusuf's palm, tongue pressing out to trace life line, head line, in a way that makes Yusuf shudder. He presses his fingertips into Eames' skin, holding him steady; he hasn't breathed in enough of this fat dark rot-scent yet, wants the opportunity to run his mouth along the curve of Eames' ear and feel the wet sharp edges of Eames' hair prickle his nose.

"god," Eames groans when Yusuf bites down, and he shifts them both (easily, so easily with all those muscles! like fucking a bouncer and a bouncy castle in one go) so that more interesting parts of them are aligned together. Eames pushes his hand into Yusuf's pants while skimming out of his own and there, that's another scent added to all this, salt-sweat-skin-dick, and Eames doesn't seem to want to remove his ear from Yusuf's teeth so Yusuf lets go of Eames' face and touches his chin, his throat, his chest, his hip, his belly before getting down to the thick hard strain of cock. "Finally," Eames rasps, then adds, "you bastard," when Yusuf rubs his thumb over the sticky cockhead rather more roughly than necessary.

Yusuf likes to be prepared for this sort of thing, so there's plenty of lube and condoms in his nightstand drawer and he can depend on Eames to be self-sufficient, which is grand when Eames takes the initiative to slick himself up as Yusuf attends to the rubber. Yusuf imagines the synthetic greasy smell of lube with the briny tar of Eames' fingers within the unmistakable musk inside his clutching, overheated, heavy-muscled body, and his own cock bobs against his belly.

"Thank you," he says with reflexive politeness when Eames pulls out his glistening, reddened fingers, which slap against Yusuf's hip as he lines up and pushes in hard, making them both gasp and blink. "You," Eames manages after what seems like the longest moment ever, "are absofuckingbloodylutely welcome," and somehow contrives to open the bracket of his hips wider for Yusuf to snuggle flush against him, all the way in. Eames is already blooming sweat all over, which Yusuf likes for both the warm intimate smell and the way it facilitates movement against each other, hair and moisture tangling up.

The heat makes it impossible to keep up any sort of impassioned fucking, so once they get the initial rush and hunger fed it's all slow liquid pushes and pulls, Eames' hands big and thick on Yusuf's back and thighs, Yusuf luxuriating in the tight slick of Eames' ass, the tilt of his body to accommodate. Yusuf takes his time and lets his orgasm collect and pool in his groin, waiting, waiting until he can't hold back any more and the act of coming itself is almost anti-climactic, nowhere near as much pleasure as the moments leading up to it. He's got an ornery streak in him, and so likes it best that way sometimes, the destination not being as satisfactory as the journey.

But the journey's not quite over yet, because Eames is still grasping and groaning, and Yusuf cheerfully settles himself over Eames' red cock and takes it into his mouth, lets Eames buck and thrust and push out his cheek, prod his back teeth, flatten his tongue. At this point, Yusuf knows, Eames is so far on the edge that it takes the tiniest bit of effort on Yusuf's part -- a flick of tongue, tightening his lips -- and there, success, Eames is coming with a ringing shout in thick pulsing spurts that smear and drip back down his cock.

"Fan _tas_ tic," Eames declares with his scrubby voice, and throws one arm over his eyes. Yusuf, less content to lie around in sweat and semen, presses his knuckles along the crest of Eames' hip in agreement and heads off to the bathroom to wash up. This, too, he enjoys; the mingled scents on his body, Eames' bleachy come in his mouth, the high smell of sweat and endorphins and spit, the unctuousness of lube and sex -- all of it washing off him layer by layer, committed to memory, replaced with metallic cool water and phenol-pinky Lifebuoy and cinnamon-harsh Close-Up.

Eames is dressed when Yusuf finally emerges. The water bucket and enamel cup on the tiny porch, Yusuf notes with mingled amusement and resignation, have obviously been employed judging from the wetness of Eames' hair and the rapidly-drying splashes on the concrete. Water drips down the back of Yusuf's kurta where it stretches across Eames' shoulders, and Yusuf sighs; another of Eames' shirts to add to his collection. He'd inherited one tidy number when Eames had come back from Kasane, all paisley in cream and pink and purple, and had worn it to dinner with his sister Zunita to great approval, but apart from that, there's nothing in the accumulated wardrobe that Yusuf would wear.

"With all the clothes you've abandoned here," Yusuf can't help pointing out as Eames puts his wristwatch back on, "you'd think you could keep from thieving mine."

Eames looks over, completely unabashed as he is with most things, and Yusuf wonders as he's done a thousand times before if this is what it's like to be an imposing white man in this black-and-brown land. "This'll do," he shrugs, muscles shifting the light cloth in all sorts of interesting ways. "More in keeping for what I've got lined up today, in any case." He pauses, narrows one eye, and for an uncomfortable minute Yusuf thinks Eames might be about to say something rather more considerate than he wants to hear, so he quickly waves a hand -- "Fine, then, I've got things to do myself," -- and is relieved when Eames nods and grins.

"I'll bring you back one with glitter and gems on it next time I'm in town," he promises, and Yusuf laughs as he shoos him out into the bright bustling day. To whatever maniacal adventures of waking and dreaming and fists and forgery await him. The back yoke of the kurta shirt looks strained as Eames walks away, losing himself in the crowd so fast it's between one blink and the next as Yusuf watches.

The scent of leather from Eames' shoes lingers by the doorway, and under that, something like enamel and sun-warmed water, like wet hair almost in need of washing. And buried far beneath, a sharp tobacco spike of a moment, quiet and subtle and one that's been missed.

Yusuf inhales deeply until that smell settles high up behind his eyes and down low behind his heart, and shuts the door, until.

**Author's Note:**

> For kissbingo square _body:ear_


End file.
